She went to ask the necessary questions. Her son-in-law sat in silence for some time, his broad shoulders slumped and his scarred face morose.
“What they want me to do,” he said finally, “is to go back and throw my weight about. By that, I mean … they have plans to rally the Convention to me, and also, Westermann has sent me a letter. You remember my friend, General Westermann?”
“A military coup.” Her dark aging face sagged. “Georges, who suffers? Who suffers this time?”
“That’s it. That’s the whole point. If I can’t remedy this situation without bloodshed, I’ll have to leave it to someone else. That’s—just how I feel these days. I don’t want any more killings at my door, I don’t want them on my conscience. I no longer feel sure enough of
“God will forgive you, Georges,” she whispered. “I know you have no faith, but I pray every day for you and Camille.”
“What do you pray for?” He looked up at her. “Our political success?”
“No, I—I ask God to judge you mercifully.”
“I see. Well, I’m not ready for judgement yet. You might include Robespierre, when you’re petitioning the Almighty. Although I’m sure they speak privately, more often than we know.”
Mid-afternoon, another carriage rumbling and squeaking into the muddy courtyard, the rain streaming down. In an upstairs room the children are screaming at the tops of their voices. Angelique is harassed; her son-in-law sits talking to the damp dog at his feet.
Louise rubs a windowpane to look out. “Oh, no,” she breathes. She leaves the room with the contemptuous twitch of her skirts which she has perfected.
Runnels of water pour and slither from Legendre the butcher’s traveling clothes: oceans, fountains and canals. “Will you look at this weather?” he demands. “Six paces and I’m drowned.” Don’t raise my hopes like that, says the sodden shape behind him. Legendre turns, hoarse, pink, spluttering, to compliment his traveling companion: “You look like a rat,” he says.
Angelique reaches up to take Camille’s face in her hands, and puts her cheek against his drenched black curls. She whispers something meaningless or Italian, breathing in the scent of wet wool. “I don’t know what I’m going to say to him,” he whispers back, in a kind of horror. She slides her arms around his shoulders and sees suddenly, with complete vividness, the sunlight slipping obliquely across the little marble tables, hears the chatter and the chink of cups, smells the aroma of fresh coffee, and the river, and the faint perfume of powdered hair. Clinging to each other, swaying slightly, they stand with their eyes fixed on each other’s faces, stabbed and transfixed with dread, while the leaden clouds scud and the foggy dismal torrent wraps them like a shroud.
Legendre sat himself down heavily. “I want you to believe,” he said, “that Camille and myself don’t go jaunting about the countryside together without good reason. Therefore what I’ve come to say, I’m going to say. I am not an educated man—”
“He never tires of telling us,” Camille said. “He imagines it is a point not already impressed.”
“This is a business you have to face head-on-not wrap it up and pretend it happened to Roman emperors.”
“Get on then,” Danton said. “You may imagine what their journey has been like.”
“Robespierre is out for your blood.”
Danton stood in front of the fire, hands clasped behind his back. He grinned.
Camille took out a list of names and passed it to him. “The batch of 4 Germinal,” he said. “Thirteen executions in all. The Cordeliers leadership, Herault’s friend Proli, a couple of bankers and of course Pere Duchesne. He should have been preceded by his furnaces; they could have turned it into a sort of carnival procession. He was not in one of his great cholers when he died. He was screaming.”
“I dare say you would scream,” Legendre said.
“I am quite sure I should,” Camille said coldly. “But my head is not going to be cut off.”
“They had supper together,” Legendre said meaningfully.
“You had supper with Robespierre?” Camille nodded. “Well done,” Danton said. “Myself, I don’t think I could eat in the man’s presence. I think I’d throw up.”
“Oh, by the way,” Camille said, “did you know that Chabot tried to poison himself? At least, we think so.”
“He had a bottle in his cell from Charras and Duchatelle, the chemists,” Legendre said. “It said ‘For External Application Only.’ So he drank it.”
“But Chabot will drink anything,” Camille said.
“He’s survived, then? Botched the job?”
“Look,” Legendre said, “you can’t afford to stand there laughing and sneering. You can’t afford the time. Saint- Just is nagging at Robespierre night and day.”
“What does he propose to charge me with?”
“Nothing and everything. Everything from supporting Orleans to trying to save Brissot and the Queen.”
“The usual,” Danton said. “And you advise?”
“Last week I’d have said, stand and fight. But now I say, save your own skin. Get out while there’s time.”
“Camille?”
Camille looked up unhappily. “We met on good terms. He was very amiable. In fact, he had a bit too much to drink. He only does that when he’s—when he’s trying to shut out his inner voices, if that doesn’t sound too fanciful.
